‘ I’ll warrant,’ she observes, when he has been looking fixedly at her for some consecutive moments, with a singular appearance in his eyes of seeming to see her a long way off, instead of so near him: ‘I’ll warrant you made the journey in a many ways, when you made it so often?’
‘ No, always in one way.’
‘ Always in the same way?’
‘ Ay.’
‘ In the way in which it was really made at last?’
‘ Ay.’
‘ And always took the same pleasure in harping on it?’
‘ Ay.’
For the time he appears unequal to any other reply than this lazy monosyllabic assent. Probably to assure herself that it is not the assent of a mere automaton, she reverses the form of her next sentence.
‘ Did you never get tired of it, deary, and try to call up something else for a change?’
He struggles into a sitti
